


Gotham belongs to us

by Sam_Seven



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Origins
Genre: (oops spoilers?), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce is a movie aficionado so I can share my love for old Hollywood movies, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon: Batman: Arkham Origins (Video Game), Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers to Enemies, Hotels, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, OMG There Is Only... 1200 Beds!, Redemption, Slow Burn, Smut, Torture, Unexpected friendships, Villain!Batman, expect a lot of references of movies from 1930s to 1960s, movie theater
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29492760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven
Summary: [Arkham Origins AU] Christmas Eve. Alfred did not survive the crumbling in the Batcave; Bruce lost the last member of his family and is alone for his violent crusade, facing opponents who hate him. Except one who sees a great opportunity to make Gotham theirs.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. Midnight mass

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Gotham nous appartient](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28015752) by [Sam_Seven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven). 



> **Wait! This fic was translated by myself, a non-English speaker.**  
>  Before you ‘suggest’ me to find and ask for a beta-reader to correct my fic, let me suggest you to shut the hell up: I’m learning English since 15 years (maybe more), but I’ve never lived in an English speaking country and I only speak English on the web. I do my best when I translate my own works (instead of writing everything I want on French), I spent a lot of time on it for you. 70 chapters (more or less) translated for you.
> 
> So don’t suggest to find a beta-reader: suggest to be a beta-reader or learn French and read the French version (this is my native langage and I guarantee you: 0 mistake, I’m a pro for it) or paste it into an online translator, okay?  
> Last solution: learn a new langage for 15 years and write a story, be my guest, and send me the link.
> 
> Readers who comment ‘DuH, i SuGgEsT yOu To FiNd A bEtA-rEaDeR’ are morons who discourage non-English authors who want to learn and try.
> 
> Seriously, beta-readers are hard to find, and while I may have find someone to beta-read this story, I want to know if we will have enough support: I’m not going to ask their help for a 70-chapters-long story (around 300 000 words, I think, I’m not done writing it yet) if this fic is only going to have 2 comments and 40 kudos.  
> So let’s try it: if I have enough feedback, I’ll translate more chapters and I’ll ask help from the reader who is willing to beta-read it.
> 
>  **Now, a note about the game and fic itself**  
>  Despite being labeled as the ‘least loved Arkham game’, I _loved_ Arkham Origins.
> 
> This opus offers an interesting story with Bruce who has been Batman for only two years and is still a rumor (some criminals still don’t believe in his existence yet). It’s very different from the other games where he is calmer: here, Bruce is particularly violent and has a hard time managing his anger. In short, he’s much more threatening than in other games.  
> There are also the fights, which are excellent, and some of the design characters are really convincing, I’m thinking above all of Bane’s, which simply surpasses the other Arkham games. In fact, all stories combined, it’s his best design.  
> And of course, the Christmas atmosphere that reminds me of Tim Burton’s second movie: even virtually, even for Gotham, seeing a city with all the Christmas lights is magical.
> 
> There’s one little detail that cut me off from my enthusiasm and this frustration inspired me to write this story.  
> For those who don't know the game but want to read this fic, there are ‘movies’ available on Youtube, though it’s an AU.
> 
> But if I must write a quick summary: in Arkham Origins, Black Mask hires six assassins to shoot down Batman, promising 50 million dollars to the winner. Among these six assassins, there are Bane, Firefly, Deathstroke, Deadshot, Killer Croc… But quite early in the game, Batman learns that Black Mask is actually the Joker, still unknown to the general public and who has been posing as Roman Sionis for months. And this Christmas Eve marks their first meeting (well, first since the fall in the acid).
> 
> In the last part of the game, while Batman is busy chasing Firefly in Gotham, Bane, having guessed the identity of the vigilante, goes to the Batcave and tries to kill Alfred by blowing up part of the cave.  
> Of course, since Alfred appears in the other Arkham games (which come later), no doubt Batman will be able to save him.  
> But that where the game made me twitch: Alfred gets stuck under rocks after an explosion and Batman saves him by making his heart start again. Then he leaves and goes to Blackgate prison where Joker and Bane are in the last fight of the game.
> 
> You can say ‘yeah, but it's a comics world, you don’t expect it to make sense!’, and I agree, but a little voice said to me anyway: you don’t heal fractures and hemorrhages with a defibrillator (lol, right?)... so what if Alfred died at this moment? He who seems to be the mentor, the one who tames Bruce’s violence a bit by reminding him not to become what he promised himself to fight against?
> 
> In the end, with my soft spot for disillusioned characters, I couldn’t help but imagine another story and started writing it last year, during the quarantine. Since then, the ideas evolve and I work on it for one year.
> 
> Enjoy~

Prologue

The rubble had been swept away, but the harm has been done.

Under the torn jacket, the butler’s torso formed strange bumps. Still equipped with his cowl and X-ray vision, Bruce could see the broken ribs, closed like claws on organs.

A painful image.

Bane had told him that he had left enough life in Alfred for them to talk one last time. To say goodbye.

He had lied to him: the bleeding, which was fatal, must have started long before Bruce was on his way… It would have been easy to check the severity of the injuries and the time of death as well, but Bruce did not dare unbutton the shirt and make a post-mortem diagnosis.

In the hollow of this cave, dust was cloud, fog and shroud at once. The bats had fled for the night, preferring to face the cold rather than the explosion.

Kneeling against the hard stone, the humidity of the cellar crying on his shoulders, the masked man felt like he went back fifteen years ago. The only difference tonight was that he _could_ have done something to save the last member of his family. He _could_ have saved him.

Two years earlier, Bruce Wayne had adopted this winged monster costume to contain Gotham’s, to push off the shadows that swallowed up thousands of innocent people every year, innocent people that included his parents.

But he had failed.

Despite his crusade, Alfred had also slipped into the abyss, following Martha and Thomas Wayne.

His code was unreliable. It was not effective enough for that filthy mire called Gotham.

Batman fixed what was left of his domain. The cables hung like electric snakes, the battle platform was cracked, unusable. A glass cylinder containing the latest version of Lucius Fox’s armor was open like an icy mouth, its broken teeth all over the ground.

The mask was laying a few meters away; it had rolled like a decapitated head.

As an item of an armor designed for the coldest of climates, this mask covered the entire face of its owner, showing only two sharp white eyes, giving it a much more austere appearance.

Batman took off his cowl and retrieved the one on the ground; Bruce Wayne’s mouth disappeared to make way for a black face, steeled with anger.

He had been vengeance, a threat, a vigilante. Tonight, his humanity amputated, he became a true winged monster.

Chapter 1 – Midnight mass

“We will be monsters, alone in the world, but we will have each other.”

Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_

« Avant de périr grillés, les moucherons croient supporter la lumière du lampadaire. [1] »

Laurent Obertone, _Ut_ _øya_

Batman did not even bother cleaning the blood on the batclaw. He already knew the power of this grapple, but he had never seen the damage it could cause when thrown against an unprotected face.

If the detainee survived, he would remain one-eyed. Perhaps stupid too, since the frontal lobe is the region of logic and language, faculties that he would now be deprived of.

Was is not the best barrier against recidivism?

The steam that was humming from the gates in the prison basement muffled the crackling of the loudspeakers, but the Joker’s voice resounded, powerful and sudden:

_“_ _…_ _N_ _ow some of you might remember that three hours ago I was asking for the Bat’s severed head in a dainty gift bag._ _”_

The instability of his voice reflected the effervescence that was agitating him, while his enemy internalized everything: anger, fury, hatred. These feelings were only burning his forehead, sparing his legs so he could run with suppleness, as well as his body so he could rode with speed.

_“_ _…_ _Well, I don’t want you thinking I’m capricious or anything! It’s just a lot’s changed in my life recently. I’d love to tell you all about it, but I don’t quite understand it myself, so let’s just chalk it up as a Christmas Miracle!_ _”_

Security cameras adorned every nook of every room in Blackgate, multiplying these eyes that had scarlet LEDs for lashes. Their glassy gaze reflected the silhouette of the bat that had just escaped from the destroyed elevator.

Let them watch, let them know, it did not matter.

Despite the blood that stained his dark gauntlets in a transparent-way, Batman had not planned to kill the Joker tonight, because this new criminal had contacted Bane to challenge him to pin the Gotham bat, which meant that Joker had enough information on Bane, a direct contact with this colossus that had become the vigilante’s primary target.

Batman would get everything he needed from the Joker, then he could kill him later.

If the arsonist Firefly or the venomous Copperhead go out of prison, their minutes would also be counted in Gotham. The fate would be the same for Deathstroke, Killer Croc, Deadshot… All of them.

Alfred had been their bulwark against a more definitive revenge, against the night that symbolized death. But he was gone, and Batman had to become what Gotham truly needed.

At the end of the corridor, the inmates, motivated by the Joker’s orders, were clutching their weapons, happy to be able to put a beating on the mysterious vigilante, but when they saw the change in his appearance, they were as scared as children in the dark. Batman had just risen from the ceiling and, while one prisoner tried to fight back, a cable around his neck, hanging from a cold gargoyle, the man in black melted on the other enemies and tormented them with fists and knee blows. If someone tried to retaliate, Batman would grab the wrist and turn it over with a snap.

Some were not just badly wounded: they were left for dead, and they would be _dead_ for good if they did not receive the first aid very soon.

The bat’s new methods did not go unnoticed, and in the surveillance room, Joker became pensive. The screens, piled up to form a wall of lights, transmitted what the cameras recorded, and despite the sometimes poor quality, the images left no doubt.

Fists bound, gagged and tied to an office chair, the prison director, Martin Joseph, looked at the screens and the Joker by turns. The degenerate had not opened his mouth or even sneered for two good minutes.

Finally, Joseph grimaced when another burst of laughter punctured his eardrums:

“They replaced him! This isn’t _th_ _is_ Batman I asked for Christmas!” Joker leaned over and stuck his nose against the screen in the center. “The one I wanted had a different mask. Oh well, this could be interesting…”

In the lower room, in the middle of the still off platform, the electric chair installation suddenly lost all interest.

Joker had planned to take a seat there to witness the fight between Bane and Batman, orchestrating a precise staging with one _sick_ detail: as long as Bane’s heart was beating, the chair would be powered, channeling 220 pinches of volts per minute. At the end of the determined countdown, the Joker would fry as in an authentic execution.

With this plan, the clown wished he could trap Batman and his refusal to kill, as all initiatives included at least one corpse. If Batman chose to spare Bane, the Joker would die; to save the Joker, Batman would have to kill Bane; if he did not want to save anyone, then he would have to die.

But if the Bat had decided to break his golden rule, Bane and Joker would both die at the same time! And then where would the Cornelian choice be? Where would the suspense be?

Hands on his hips, Joker glanced at the wrestler.

“We have so little in common, Bane, but I think our death dates will match!”

Bane did not respond, massaging the palms of his hands, pampering the muscles before the fight. Director Joseph also imposed an unpleasant silence. Of course, with the red scarf stuck in his mouth, he could not help it, but the clown would have appreciated a nod.

“Come on, it’s Christmas Eve! Do your bit, otherwise it’ll look like one of those family meals where everyone is pulling a face!”

He laughed at his hostage and his mercenary, no longer worrying about their silence, then he focused on the screen again: Batman arrived in the wing where Joker had tied up Dr. Quinzel with two others guards. At least they would slow down the bat long enough to find something else, another plan.

***

Acid green messages were scrawled on every wall: parodies of Christmas carols; false indications; aggressive smileys with shark teeth. A lot of madness and jubilation that made the blazes on the road less threatening…

Ignoring the heat emanating from a burning pile of chairs behind him, Batman released the pressure of his arm against the throat he had just crushed. The prisoner’s body collapsed.

“Batman?”

It was the psychiatrist.

Now that the danger was over — at least, the one posed by the present inmates —, one of the guards could untie Harleen Quinzel’s wrists.

Joker had given new instructions to his associate: she was supposed to approach Batman and point him in a new direction, so Harleen ran to the gate, her red heels clicking on the metal platform, and called the man again:

“Batman.”

He turned his back on her. His long cape imitated the shreds of a ghost made of shadows, running from the tips of his head to the ground. Wet snow still impregnated the fabric, making the black even deeper. Unless it came from fresh blood?

“The one you’re looking for has blocked all exits except the elevator. He doesn’t want to give you a choice.”

The green arrows were pointing in all possible directions, tracing a deliberately confusing path, but two of them actually reached their snouts a few centimeters from the elevator.

Without thanking her, or even asking her how she was doing, Batman walked away towards his revenge.

Inside the elevator, a guard had been suspended from the fence. His knee was twisted, his foot was turning round, the heel in front rather than the toes. Blood was dripping from the shoe, inspiring a pain that was contradicted by the big red smile that had been made up on the inert face.

On the control panel, a green arrow had been drawn near the buttons, the 16 one to be precise, which led to the upper floors, was saying ‘Bane’, while for the lower floors, another arrow indicated ‘Joker’.

The clown has not resisted adding a little smiley face near his name, just as he could not resist the pleasure of chattering:

 _“_ _I_ _must say_ _, Bat_ _s_ _,_ _”_ the narrowness of the cage gave the illusion that he was very close, _“_ _I wonder_ _who you_ _’_ _re most angry at! I know that I_ _hired_ _the best assassins_ _—_ _well, I thought they were the best_ _—_ _for killing_ _you, and maybe Bane did more than kill you?_ _I don’t know, h_ _e refuses to talk to me…_ _”_

Oh yes, Bane had done more.

Finally, Batman could do without the information the Joker had by simply pressing number 16.

_“_ _You wouldn_ _’_ _t want to tell me, by any chance? I mean, your business is your business, of course, but I think I_ _’_ _m a good mediator, so I_ _’_ _m volunteering to be your referee!_ _”_

His laughter resounded so loudly that the speakers suffered from this excess.

Without raising his head towards the camera he felt in his back, Batman pressed the button with the 16 on it. The doors closed and a click sounded.

 _“_ _Oooh, wrong choice, Bat_ _s_ _! I hate being left behind._ _”_ Reacting quickly, Batman directed his batclaw towards the ceiling of the elevator. _“_ _And_ _you know,_ _I have two big faults: I_ _’_ _m very jealous and I love explosives. What do you think the result_ _might be, hm_ _?_ _”_

The black claw pierced the ceiling. Batman had to pull again to get a better grip, but the bomb, certainly placed on one of the cables, exploded. A few sparks fell into the cage, rushing with joy.

Before feeling the effects of gravity, before dying, Batman aimed again and the claw slipped through the gap. The din did not let him hear if he had aimed right, but he felt the cable tighten. By positioning his fist correctly, he could destroy the plate that had already been damaged and get out of this trap…

However, to his surprise, the elevator had started to slow down: the fall had been as short as that of a thrill ride. But was the ride already over? Where had the elevator stopped?

Batman heard a loud bang from outside and the lights went out. All that remained was the hollow silence of an empty tower where an elevator cage was suspended.

Blessed be the night vision of his mask, since with it, Batman could retaliate against a possible attack. And precisely, the tongue of a crowbar pierced the top of the imposing doors. The flat bar made its way between the metal teeth, tearing their edge. Batman had laid his hands on the smoke bombs and the batarang. The elevator gave him too little room, but in a thick fog he could dodge the bullets more easily and defend himself to the end.

Dying did not scare him, certainly not after Alfred’s fate, but failure was a real fear. He could not stop until he had broken every bone of those who had caused the death of his only ally.

The elevator had to be somewhere between two floors as the increasingly wide opening revealed a large strip of concrete.

The lower floor could allow Batman to escape, but it would be difficult, while the landing above had a much clearer access, yet, it blocked by the man who had just crouched down to look at the trapped bat.

Joker.

“What’s up, Bats?” Elbows on his knees, the madman smiled. “I wonder how many of your choices I’ll manage to make you regret before tomorrow.” He started counting on his fingers. “You saved my life at the hotel, and now you were going to choose Bane. But don’t think I’m angry, I’m not. I was much more angry at you when you saved me! But Bane? At least I’ve the answer I wanted: you wanted him first, yet _I_ ’m the one who hired him.”

Night vision did not allow him to see his snake irises, but Batman could see how his enemy was nodding his head. A real Christmas elf, totally excited and full of energy.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m kind of the source of all your problems.” Joker observed, before reaching out his hand, offering dubious help.

With a grunt, Batman grabbed that wrist and pulled so hard that he made the clown lose his balance. His body, even if it was thin, hit the metal floor with a loud noise.

Batman was about to lift him up and hit him. After all, he might as well take care of Joker right now before moving on to Bane.

“Oh, Batsy-Bats, you know, you really shouldn’t do that…”

“Where is Bane?!”

“Think about it: if we both fall down, the answer won’t matter anymore!”

His voice betrayed no anxiety; just that same old hilarity.

For months, Batman had been trying to terrify his enemies, to give shape to their phobias and nightmares. How did the Joker manage to make fun of everything?

He was still laughing when his feet touched the uncertain ground again.

For a moment, Bruce wondered if this enemy knew his secret too. Unfortunately, nothing in the Joker’s attitude could point to an answer.

His fists still clenched the sides of the trench coat when the madman asked:

“What the Big Bad Bane did to you? Did he sit on the hood of your car? Did he break one of your toys?” Joker took advantage of their proximity to each other to pretend to bring his fingers closer to Batman’s face. “Did he look under your mask?”

The bat pushed him away with a sudden jolt and the ground shake with fear. Joker laughed again, apparently happy to step on a deadly danger.

It was really time to leave, so Batman grabbed the edge of the floor with one hand, while the other still held the clown, urging him to follow him into the safer hallway.

It was not until he was safe from a fateful fall that Batman noticed that the electricity would not come back on: one of the generators had been destroyed by a fire axe. An emergency generator might be activated soon…

Even in this low visibility, Batman was sure that there was no one else: the Joker had waited for him alone.

The clown was dusting his knees, slowly going up and ended with his shoulders.

“I had to improvise, Bats, because I had something else in store for you: a Cornelian choice between Bane and me, but I saw that something had changed. No, I’m not talking about your mask, not only, I’m talking about the fact that you would’ve ruined the suspense by killing Bane and me. Didn’t you have a code or something?”

Batman grabbed the trench coat and threw Joker against the wall, holding him against the cold glass. Outside, the light of the carnage was competing with the light of the sleepless night. A contrast that the two enemies seemed to compose in their own way.

“Where is Bane?! Don’t make me ask twice!”

“No, no, no, this is wrong: I asked him to kill you, not to open your eyes!” Joker put his hands on the arm that was beginning to compress him. “But don’t get me wrong, Bats, I always congratulate someone who’s been deflowered!” To underline his word, he began to applaud, but the pressure of the arm intensified, letting out a groan of pain.

“Do you and Bane work really together? What do you know about him?”

“Uh… he’s very tall, he’s very strong, he’s a drug addict, and he sheds a little tear in front of all the Disney movies. That’s all I know!”

This nonchalance aroused Batman’s anger a little more and he punched Joker in the stomach: the pain paralyzed the clown for a moment.

“Speak!”

“I’d like to sing, if it’s okay with you?” Even with the shortness of breath, Joker began to sing: “no one knows what it’s liiiike to be the Baaatman, to be the sad man, behind blue eeey...”

How ironic. Joker never shut it, however his secrets remained hidden in his throat, a throat that Batman grabbed abruptly. Men four times bigger than the Joker would have looked at the vigilante with eyes filled with fear, ready to beg him to let them go. But against his palm, here, Batman felt the tremor of a snigger.

Seeing how useless it was, the bat loosened his grip and stepped back.

Of course, he was overwhelmed with anger, but that emotion became ridiculous when mocked. After a deep breath, he spoke more calmly:

“You hired Bane to kill me. You promised him 50 million dollars.”

“You know what they say: love has no price!”

“I can give you those 50 million back, if that’s what you want in return.”

“So you’re buying back your head? Just like that? Does that price mean nothing to you?”

The masked millionaire did not answer.

“Nah, it’s not enough, Bats. It hurts me to say it but let’s be _logical_ : I mean, it’s your _life_! You must pay a higher price. 60 million? Nah, that’s not enough neither. Double, maybe?”

“Even 150 million if you want.”

“Oh!” Joker pretended to come closer, leaning a little. Was he going to mime a curtsy? “Batsy, really… You hurt my feelings.”

“Because I’m offering you 150 million?”

“Because you think that money could mean something to me! Okay, I get it: money isn’t your weak point, but I’ve guessed it already with all your gadgets. Anyway, you won’t lose 150 million since you’ll get it back once I’m dead, right?” Suddenly, Joker bent down to imitate the posture of confidence. “What really _matters_ right now is that little _something_ to get to Bane.”

The Penguin had the same taste for luxury as the demimondaines of the past century, and he kept the weapon market on activity. Black Mask had built his empire to rule Gotham, becoming an intractable drug baron. Carmine Falcone, on the other hand, had the heritage, the name, the tradition.

They had all succeeded and became leaders; some men feared them, and more respected them.

But the Joker? What motivated him? His lunacy would never make him a criminal surrounded by loyal henchmen.

Was he going to betray Bane just for the fun of it? Was there any real reason to turn against this mercenary?

Shots rang out outside and a glance out the window was enough to see all the police vehicles surrounding the prison. Batman easily recognized James Gordon’s moustache and fogged glasses.

“You may not realize this, Bats, but you, you really opened my eyes.” By the windows, lit by the fires, his green irises seemed electric. “Here I thought I was hitting level ten, the tippity top of the fun scale… slaughtering gangsters, killing cops, exploding buildings. But now I know that the scale goes beyond ten. _Way_ beyond! How much is anyone’s guess, but together, you and me, we are going to push it as far as it will go.”

New shots were heard with sounds of struggle and cries of rage. The police were going to try to regain control of the prison, a task that should be easier now that the king of the party was ready to leave the place.

Joker walked away in small jumps, declaring:

“Mr. Universe won’t welcome Jim Jimmy, he probably left before the first shot was fired, but you know what? I’m not going to be a host either, especially for them, so we might as well run away!”

“We?”

“You don’t want the information about Bane anymore?”

Batman began to follow him.

“That’s what I thought.”

They were still walking along the corridor when the emergency generator was activated. The neon lights switched on with a plaintive buzzing, and some flashed several times in panic before stabilizing.

Joker seemed to know the place already: he was following the correct arrows, the ones that marked the path to the chapel.

More as a game than as a defense, Joker shot randomly in the corridors, never minding the identity of the potential victims. Something added to the carnage.

On the floor, red stains tried to dominate the green inscriptions, trailing their metal scent, competing wildly in their violent drawings. The flames offered a certain light, digging a hell in the prison for Christmas Eve.

More discreetly, Batman would run, sometimes overtaking the Joker he had to drag along: if the crazy man decided to talk, then the avenger had not intention to let him go.

And if Joker changed his mind about their deal, well, he would greet the Virgin Mary before Bane would.

Antique stone eventually replaced bare concrete walls, taking the fugitives to another era. A red carpet showed them the way, and when they reached the central alley, even the sounds of wrestling seemed muffled. The stained glass windows shone with their warm hues. It was beautiful; pieces of red, gold, caramel and orange glass fighting back the cold and the moon.

In front of the altar, Batman experienced a brief moment of calm as he watched what was designed in front of them: an angel flying over a fallen fellow. His gray wings were spread out like a stiff cape, his bare torso evoking strength and courage; he was passing over the mutilated creature while holding an immaculate sword, but for what purpose? To point out the opponent? To kill the lost brother? Or was there a chance that the divine being was trying to save the one who had gone astray?

The masked man was brought back to reality when he heard Joker hitting the ground with his heel, martyring the thick carpet. After a few tries, he stopped and shrugged his shoulders with a burst of laughter:

“Too bad! I thought there was a trap door, but this chapel is a dead end!”

“What?!”

The joke sounded hilarious to Joker! He slapped his thigh twice, trying to catch his breath before straightening up while Batman was ranting:

“You guided us here without knowing if there was a way out?!”

“In fact, I _suspected_ that there was none.” Without shame, he gave him his most beautiful smile, a grimace painted with pleasure. “But I’m sure you’ll you find something, Batsy, won’t you?”

This question fell almost sensually, heightening the thrill.

Running away with the Joker was a ride on the most dangerous roller coaster without bothering with the seat belt.

Batman saw only one possible way out, and it did not rule out a possibility of death.

He pulled out the batclaw and aimed at the middle of stained-glass window. The three black blades pierced the colored glass, interrupting the frozen battle between the angel and the demon. The debris flew like sharp confetti, fluttering in bloody flakes.

The batclaw encountered the strong wind outside, unable to hold on to any grip, but at least the way was clear.

Driven by an old reflex, Batman grabbed the clown and invited him to take shelter under his cape. Joker seemed to be gloating and he put his arms around the armoured torso, letting the merry-go-round take him away.

As Batman crossed this glass jaw, avoiding the last sharp fangs, he heard the Joker trumpet:

“What a night, Batsy!”


	2. Royal Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, yes! The whole mask is the one in the Cold, cold heart DLC which is just fabulous.

Even under the bat’s wing, Joker could feel the icy breeze trying to numb his face. The wind wanted to turn his skin into a moonstone mask, but without success: this pale Pierrot was in fact an Auguste, just as joyful as the famous clown. Oh, of course, he was way more dangerous.

After passing through the destroyed stained-glass window, Batman, still holding the Joker, had let themselves fall, parallel to the cliff. A jolt had surprised the Joker, forcing him to tighten his embrace; Batman too had tightened his arm, holding his enemy to prevent him from falling.

The bat tried to take his bearings through the contrasts of black and silver, then, he aimed with his claw at a lamppost that ran along a road. It needed no more but one pull on the trigger and a solid grip so he could fly away from Blackgate with the criminal. Despite the strong noise of the grip, no police officer noticed their departure.

Leather gloves were a meager comfort in this blizzard, but the Joker’s excitement went to the tip of his fingernails, warming him up. The situation was taking a whole new turn that he had not anticipated at all, and now, he could not wait to see how it would turn out.

Sure, Joker had a strong desire for revenge against the masked vigilante, an irrepressible desire to eliminate him, yet it was different now: everything had changed since Batman had rescued him at the Royal Hotel. After all, the irony had been too seductive to be ignored: almost a year after dropping a poor anonymous guy into a vat of chemicals, Batman caught him just when an explosion on the top of the hotel threw him into the air. The masked man had prevented him from falling to his death; he had kept him in that acid rebirth.

Joker had been sincere when he told to Dr. Quinzel it was _destiny_.

Now, for the second time on this December 25th, Batman was holding close the Joker to protect him.

So yes, Joker was eager to find out the rest of their night, but whatever happened, he vowed to stay in control of the situation.

Once ashore, under the livid lamppost, Batman stowed his batclaw and inspected the surroundings. The exits was surely blocked further down the road, and it would take them hours to reach Gotham on foot.

Even from here, they could hear the gunshots fizzling like fireworks. On Christmas morning, there would be many deaths to count, yet only one would really matter to Bruce. The others no longer mattered.

“I was sure that you’d turn me in to the police, Batsy.”

“Was it a test?”

Joker answered only with a sneer.

The controls on the gauntlet allowed Batman to call the batwing, since it was the safest way to get away from here.

Usually, Alfred only needed the coordinates to send it to…

Fingers tensed over the panel. Bruce suspended his gesture for a moment. Then he completed the request.

Joker approached with a small leap, crushing the snow that made a crystal sound. Batman did not know where to go or what to do to make the clown talk. Questions were shared apparently as the Joker asked, showing a pout:

“What am I going to do with you now?” His complexion was so pale, without a single red or blue bite on his cheekbones or the tip of his nose. “I know, I’ll tell you how to trap and kill Bane. But not here.”

“Where, then?”

“At the Royal.”

“The hotel you tried to destroy?”

“What can I say? Criminals always go back to the crime scene, right?”

A loud sound surprised him, but when Joker raised his face to the sky, to some sort of mechanical black bird with such a peculiar shape, it seemed he was looking at a true Christmas miracle.

“Wow! I was thinking about stealing a car, but I can’t resist _it_!” He leaned on Batman’s shoulder, and in a tone of confidence, added, “Beware that I don’t steal it from you, Batsy.”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh, beware: I love a challenge.”

***

Even for a December 25th, Gotham looked like a ghost town.

The snowdrifts, huge and pure, were untouched: no child had harvested a bit of their belly to create snowmen or snow balls, no teenager, inspired to destroy, had trampled on their shimmering bodies.

Muddy gray footprints stained a few sidewalks, and some even has rusty tints. They were the only passages of the gangs that prowled around on that holy night.

It was like the silence in the Royal was linked to the fear that led to hide in homes.

There was no one left in the hotel; all the candlesticks, all the tables, all the bouquets, all the armchairs, all the rooms, all the floors, everything belonged to them.

The hole in the glass roof of the hall, caused by the fall of the Electrocutioner, invited a terrible cold. Luckily, for the comfort of the guests, the establishment offered a multitude of private rooms in a Victorian fashion: each one was named with a color and decorated accordingly.

“Sorry, Batsy, there’s no black lounge, so that will be _my_ color.” Joker said as he pushed the double door of the green private room.

Luckily, the shades chosen for the room were less aggressive and acidic than those used by the clown: the wallpaper was in an almond tone, softened by the silver flower motifs printed on it. The curtains, as thick as quilts, had that elegant and serious British green. Vases of white lilies matched the paintings of snowy landscapes around.

The whole set was too sober, too smooth and Joker seemed almost disappointed, but as soon he thought he could add his personal touch soon, he was smiling again.

“You can’t stay here forever, Joker.”

“I beg your pardon: actually, I can. The hotel was bought by Sionis. Well, _I_ bought it, but his name was on the credit card! Don’t look at me like that, I was going to pay him back, with the money I got from… the bank.”

Bank that belonged in fact to Roman Sionis.

With a burst of laughter, the Joker settled into one of the black leather armchairs, first bending his knees under his chin, then, not judging the position comfortable enough, stretching his legs to cross his ankles on the small table, hitting the vase.

So well seated, he questioned silently Batman who stood motionless.

“Come on, don’t be so shy! You don’t need my approval to settle down. Do you? Wait! Don’t settle down there. Not there either. Not here. Oh, not that one.” Ignoring him, Batman moved to the chair in front of him, and Joker began to make great arm movements: “Please, dear Lord Baaatman, please, sit down! A bunch of mosquitoes with that? I know you’re smiling under that new mask. By the way, why did you change it? Did the cold chap your lips? By the way, since it’s just you and me, here, Batsy, tell me: why the bat? Is it some kind of spirit animal?”

“Do you already have a plan for Bane?”

“How stubborn… Are you sure you’re not a policeman at day? No? Looks like it.” He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. “Excuse me, it’s Harley.”

“Harley?”

“The pretty blondie you saved. I mean, the one you were _supposed_ to save. Remember her? Glasses, pretty young.”

Yes, he suddenly remembered the doctor who had intercepted him to show him the way.

“Are you two accomplices?”

“I think she likes me ‘a lot’.”

Batman was not sure he could understand, but Joker kept on writing his phone without looking at him.

“You mean you already knew each other?”

“Oh no, but we talked about things, she got carried away and… oh, she’s so damn cute! If you had bothered to chat with her a little bit, you’d know how adorable she is, Batsy.”

Batman could not believe a word of it: this man was some kind of devil who had come out of nowhere to steal Roman Sionis’ mask and to pretend to be him, a comedy that had worked for months, even fooling the henchmen of Black Mask. Still in this disguise, he had hired famous assassins to send them after Batman, promising quite a festive sum. Batman did not know how well the clown could fight, but one thing was certain: Joker was an excellent manipulator. Each sentence raised too many doubts, so the bat stayed on the assumption that Dr. Quinzel and the Joker already knew each other before Blackgate.

But for now, there was more important.

“Joker. I’ve no time to lose.”

The clown still did not raise his head, testing the patience of the Dark Knight.

To make him react, Batman hit the little table with a violent kick. The vase toppled over for good, falling with a resounding tinkle, spitting the long flowers with a jet of water.

Instead of provoking a feeling of anger, the Joker’s smile widened, but he still did not respond.

“Bane.”

“ _Right_ _._ Bane. The reason you don’t kill me first.” Joker tossed the phone into the chair to his left. “Why, by the way?”

“Enough with questions, we’ll never get anywhere that way.”

“Are you sure about it? All it takes is for one of us to give up. You want to know my plan, I want to know why Bane is your priority. You need me more than I need you. It’s a shame: you’re tricked, unable to do a trick.”

Joker joined his fingertips, bouncing them silently against each other. Under the bright light of the chandelier, he remained calm, allowing Batman to take a closer look at him.

At first, he had thought the clown’s chalk skin was make-up, but despite the areas where the skin was still a bit beige, the so-called make-up extended to the hairline, white ears, spreading to under the collar of the shirt, perfectly smooth. The black gloves did not allow him to analyze the hands, but Batman would not have been surprised to see the same diseased complexion.

As for the red lips and dark circles around the eyes, the avenger came to wonder if it was really an artifice and, if so, how much it really was.

Not to mention that hair color. The eyebrows were barely darker, but they were green as well, just like… yes, Batman was sure of it, just like the _eyelashes_.

That look was _authentic_.

The sudden silence was muffled by the flakes thrown against the windows, carried away in this delirious wind. How many citizens had managed to find sleep on this holy and cursed night?

While some had to wander through the alleys with icy steel bars in their hands, others trembled more because of fear than cold under their blankets.

Last week, while watching an interview reported in the media, Bruce had a lump in his throat: Sammy, a 7-year-old Gothamite, was crying his eyes out because he was afraid a bad guy would blow up Santa’s sleigh.

In the midst of this collective despair, Joker seemed to be the only one who was experiencing a real Christmas, a true holiday that filled him with joy. Even though it was a Christmas in his own way.

The clown finally got up, tired of this game of silence:

“Do you know what I had planned for you tonight? In what honor I was giving this little party?”

“It was a riot.”

“It all depends on your point of view. I knew you’d want to confront Bane: without him explaining why, he told me he was waiting for you, so I had set up a whole installation where I planned to sit in an electric chair connected to a heart monitor that would count the beats of Bane’s heart.” Batman squinted. “Every beat would charge the batteries in the electric chair.”

“If I didn’t kill Bane, you would die, and to let you live, I had to kill Bane.”

“Bingo! And you wouldn’t have had much time to make up your mind: Bane’s heartbeat would have left you a handful of minutes at most.”

“… You’re sick.”

His remark drew a hilarious laugh out of the Joker.

“Admit it: it would’ve been extraordinary, Batsy! But when you hung that man under that gargoyle…”

“So he’s dead…” Bruce whispered softly. Joker did not hear him, continuing:

“… and smashed the skulls of six or seven others, I understood that this little show wouldn’t have been of much use: you would’ve killed Bane without the slightest hesitation.”

“And I would’ve killed you right afterwards.”

“Really? No second rescue? I would’ve fought to deserve this second chance.”

“I wouldn’t have saved you!”

He stood up screaming. His face was totally hidden by this dark mask, but his tense shoulders and clenched fists betrayed his feels.

He had not looked back as he left his opponents, but now he knew: Bruce had killed. The rule had been broken to make him what Gotham needed.

A painful baptism.

“I wouldn’t have _saved_ you.” Batman articulated as if the very word disgusted him. He then grabbed the clown’s collar.

Joker felt the fun tickling his cheeks. He put his hands on the solid forearm and licked his lips:

“Then why did you do it the first time?”

The fist that held his shirt was trembling a few inches from his heart, but it resisted the raise of anger. The tremors stabilized, then disappeared.

In the Joker’s opinion, the bat’s costume was ridiculous, but he had to admit one thing: this masked brute was good at pretending to be made of stone.

But in the end, Batman was only wearing an armor. An armor with flaws.

The clown’s claws got a little deeper.

“Something has changed. You’ve never killed before, and tonight, you finally realized that your code doesn’t make sense.” Joker put his index finger against his own mouth, then his middle finger, tinting them red before presenting them to the masked man. “Will you still be bring two roses in Crime Alley for the next birthday?”

The clown was thrown back.

He was lucky: Batman could have thrown him towards the bay window, but he had aimed instead a corner of the living room.

Joker landed on one of the tables against the wall. The green tablecloth slipped and carried him to the other end. If he had wanted to get up, he did not have the chance: Batman had just thrown himself on top of him.

Upon impact, the back of the criminal’s skull hit the hard wood. The pain caused a jolt in his lungs, swollen with laughter:

“Go on, Batsy! Go on! Since how long were you keeping this secret? I guess you were some emo teenager! Were you cutting your arm? Did you have a disturbed sexuality? Did drugs?” He got punched in the jaw for every question, but Batman could not silence him.

“Who else did you tell? WHO ELSE DID YOU TELL?!”

“You think I shared your secret with Bane?!” The idea was so laughable that he had to cling to the angry vigilante’s shoulders. “I didn’t even know Mister Universe knew about it! Bane didn’t need me!”

Unable to deal with his fury in any other way, Batman lifted the Joker up and then slammed him hard against the table. He hoped he could hear the occipital bone hit the surface, but the laughter resonated much louder.

Bruce Wayne suddenly felt a great, immense weariness. The strength that Batman’s identity gave him vanished, leaving him alone in a doomed Gotham.

And Joker continued to mock and gloat.

The thick hands had no more ardor than those of a ghost. The grip of the fingers became spectral. The grip loosened just like the meaning of all Bruce’s convictions.

The smell of waxed wood vaguely reminded him of the cleanliness of the manor; nothing but a memory now. His cape spread out on the table looked like a broken wing, damaged by the struggles and the cold.

Joker suddenly asked in a soft voice:

“What Bane has done to you? How did he become the one who _broke_ Batman?”

The ceiling was high, yet it felt heavy. The complex white moldings weighed on the shoulders of the masked man who felt the need to lie down. Batman placed one elbow on the crumpled tablecloth and slowly laid on his back. The hardness of the table did not bother him, nor did the sudden closeness to his enemy.

“He killed the last member of my family.”

While hearing for this confession, short but essential, Joker had straightened himself on one elbow. For a moment, the clown looked serious, but then, true to himself, he began to smile in this supernatural way:

“You had a bad day. _Another_ bad day and you’re still not used to it.”

The moment of weakness passed. Batman got up and left the table, readjusting his gauntlets, standing in front of the storm-blinded window.

“It looks like you know what you’re talking about.”

“About bad days? Unfortunately and fortunately, I’m an expert.”

“ _‘F_ _ortunately_ _’_?”

It was the Joker’s turn to stand up and approach his fellow to share the sight of the noise that swirled outside.

“I understand you more than you can imagine.”

“Who did you lose?”

“Batsy, it’s just a bad day!” He had just suppressed the question, keeping his secrets confined. “That’s how we live; Gotham’s like that!” Joker pointed to the window of a dramatic movement. How many crimes had been committed during this only night? How many corrupt cops in the G.C.P.D.? Which mayor had been honest with the citizens lately? “Wait, it’s not fair: the whole world is psychotic, how can you survive without cracking up? You know, order and reason are fragile, worst, they bring no comfort. So leave these traumas behind you, Batman, free yourself from these mourning moments!”

“I can’t forget them.”

“Yet there’s nothing more cruel and painful than a memory.” Like an old friend, Joker put his arm on Batman’s shoulders, shaking him in a soft manner. “You’ll see how much better you’ll be afterwards. When you don’t care about anything…”

“I don’t feel like laughing. I just want to avenge the second father I lost.” He had whispered, but Joker was silent in time to hear him.

Batman pushed away the clown’s arm, but Joker followed him like a shadow.

“Listen, Batsy, I’m not on very good terms with Bane. I think you suspected that since he tried to shoot at us with a missile launcher, leaving us with little chance of escape. Yeah, flash news: he wasn’t just aiming at you. So my plan needs a bait: you.”

“You’ll make him believe that you captured me?”

“I’ve never practiced bat hunting, but I’m sure I’m good at it.”

“You wanted to kill me. That’s why you hired Bane, why would you bring me to him if you could trap me?”

“Because I want to. You know, I’ve so many whims that ruin promising friendships, so many… deliriums that no one questions anymore what I decide to do or not to do!”

There was a certain logic in this chaotic thinking, but Batman remained suspicious.

“Yeees, I know, it won’t be easy to coax him, and it’s likely that we’ll meet some of his henchmen before I could bring you over to him.”

“I notice one thing above all: you’re the only one who is in control in this plan.”

“Batsy, you saved my life. Do you know why I’d have exposed myself to danger on that electric chair that you’ll unfortunately never see? Which, by the way, undermines my morale, but do you know why? Because I trust you.” He tapped Batman’s chest with the tip of his index finger. “Is it too much to ask it to be reciprocal?”

“Yes, it is.”

And that answer made him laugh:

“Yet I’ve never betrayed your secret. I don’t know how Bane found out who you were under your mask, but none of the assassins I hired had that information.”

“The mission would’ve been easier if you told about it.”

“Why would I make the job easier?”

Batman remained stoic.

If the night was well underway, the sun would not rise before several hours: the storm would prevent it from rising, and this gloomy weather would perhaps last a full week.

“How did you…?”

“How did I know? When you have an idée fixe, you analyze it from every angle. Your jaw was the only part that wasn’t hidden. Of course, I needed some good pictures, but as Bruce Wayne often appears in the media… If the paparazzi photographed your back or your butt more often, I’d still be thinking.”

A joke that reminded Batman of another problem: what to do about Bruce Wayne?

At that time, the mansion must still be empty. The other servants, more anonymous, would return on the morning of the 26th to resume their duties, and if they were not dismissed before then, they would respect a minute of silence to honor the memory of Alfred Pennyworth, this extraordinary man who had sacrificed everything, as a real butler, as a true friend, for little Bruce Wayne who had grown up.

Bruce Wayne who had become Batman.

The crime scene could not remain as it was. Should he leave Alfred under the rubble and deprive him of a proper burial? Or should he ‘change’ his surrogate father’s death?

Maybe… Maybe Bruce Wayne could die too?

“Contact Bane, make up whatever you want. I’ll make a decision when I know his answer.”

“Keeping yourself to yourself in your cave? Are you going to meditate upside down or are you reasonably bat?”

Batman did not answer and left the green private room as a dull shadow. In the corridor, two bodies, victims of the Joker, were still hanging from the chandelier. Bandits as muscular as professional wrestlers yet.

The Joker had managed to represent a sentimental picture: golden garlands tied their hands, forcing them to stand as if they were dancing together. It was disturbing to see they both had broad, paralyzed smiles.


	3. What ever happened to Bruce Wayne?

He could not bring himself to destroy the batcave, at that, despite all the memories lurking there like bats in the dark. Just like these sensitive mammals, all it took was a step, a noise, a sigh for these memories to unfurl in a violent, dark cloud, so heavy it could swept away lighter, happier thoughts.

A madman has told him: there was nothing more painful and cruel than a memory.

As a sign of reverence, Bruce took off his mask and let the icy humidity sting his cheekbones, his mouth, his forehead.

Alfred, of course, had not moved.

In this fragmented tomb, winter seemed ready to preserve him indefinitely.

The butler had always stood in the shadows, doing a remarkable job as a servant, acolyte and… father. Even if the tombs are dark and cold for all, Bruce refused to let Alfred’s body be forgotten down here, in some secret entrails.

Weak in his armor, Bruce knelt beside the body.

“I killed someone, Alfred.” As if the man was still alive, Bruce did not dare look at him. “A Blackgate inmate that no one will talk about while he must have had a story. I wanted to protect the people of Gotham, even those who didn’t seem to deserve it. But… do I have to kill to protect the others?… I keep thinking about it… and I’m afraid that… I’m partly responsible for your death. If I had killed Bane at the Royal, things would be different. I guess you’d do your damnedest to convince me to stay at the manor for the rest of the night and get some rest…”

Regrets threw acid on past angers, making them withered, insignificant.

“… Alfred… You’ve always approved of this limit that I imposed on myself when I first wore this suit, but… what if we had been wrong? What if… Joker was right? What if he was right to get rid of Loeb, to weaken Sionis? The G.C.P.D. is corrupted and crime has been on the rise since my parents died… and I became Batman with the sole purpose of stopping this growth. Frightening Gotham’s enemies to make them step back… but in the last two years, crime has barely stabilized. A lost cause requires more defined means…”

His words vanished: a wet line had frozen under Alfred’s eye. It could have been a trace left by a drop from a streaming.

Or it could be…

On the rubble, the water had completely frozen and, now hard, it gave the illusion of moving only thanks to the glows lent by the night. Embellished by this layer of ice, the stone seemed softer, richer.

With his eyes, Bruce followed the luminous line of these uncertain shapes and a hollow above caught his attention: the recent recess that was at the origin of the drama.

After readjusting his cowl, Batman sought a reliable grip with the batclaw and flew away to reach the height of the hole caused by an explosive.

The bomb, which he had yet to identify, had been placed three meters above the platform. Had Alfred seen what had happened? Did he understand what was going to happen?

To reach the batcave, Bane had to use the helicopter that had waited for him at the hotel, but even though it was smaller than the batwing, the noise must have been deafening…

Alfred should have run away! He knew the quickest way to the elevator, he would have sent him a message…

With his glove, Batman brushed against the residue of the substance that smelled like gum. That was semtex. A malleable plastic that looked like a paste that spread easily and could explode with amazing power. An explosive that every criminal in Gotham was familiar with since they spread it more often on buildings than butter on their own slices of bread.

The bat had to find Bane. He had to figure out what had happened, how this enemy trapped both he and Alfred.

Recording this information, Batman went back down to earth, facing the deceased again.

“I will avenge you, Alfred.”

He felt animated by a terrible vigor again.

Batman retrieved the small amount of intact data on the computer Bane had destroyed, equipped himself with additional gadgets and personal belongings — the bare minimum. He had to leave the scene, away from his home, to make Bruce Wayne’s disappearance credible.

Once the bags were put in the batwing, he was able to carry out his plan.

***

To make it look like a terrorist attack, a bomb had been placed in the chimney flue of the first living room, suggesting that it had been thrown from the roof. The inspectors would not be surprised: there was no more classic crime, moreover linked to the holiday.

The fact that some Krampus left a murderous gift at billionaire Wayne’s home would not bring tears to their eyes. Perhaps the police would even feel a form of justice when they will see the huge hood ripped open, its ancestral bricks all over the floor.

For them, Bruce Wayne lived in a cocoon woven of gold and silver, comfortable and strong enough to preserve him from Gotham. Sure, his parents had been murdered right before his eyes when he was still a kid, but come on, he had grown up and passed over it, now! How can you be unhappy with such a fortune and so many model lovers from the fashion world?

Some would see it as a form of justice, it did not matter if it was a blind justice.

Much of the ceiling had fallen, causing three rooms on the second floor to fall, breaking expensive furniture, artwork and other relics of wealth.

Despite what he led the media to believe, Bruce was not a materialist, so he felt nothing in the rubble. The most painful part was about Alfred’s body, which was under the pieces of the ceiling.

In reality, it should have been there before the explosion, but Bruce had not had the heart to put his mentor through another attack and the crime scene was first designed without the victim.

“I’m sorry, Alfred…” Bruce sighed as he placed one last beam on the old man.

In forty-eight hours, a medical examiner would open Alfred’s rib cage to assess the internal damage, making careful lists of primary, secondary and tertiary injuries. There would be no doubt that the cause of death would be due to the numerous fractures and hemorrhages following the blast, but the stage of _rigor mortis_ would remain a mystery.

Doctors, following Knight’s method, would take the rectal temperature of the corpse without delicacy, without shame, and yet, they would ignore how to explain such a drop in heat when the butler had been found in a heated interior. They would not be able to explain why the stage of rigidity would be similar to that of a hiker found dead in a _cave_.

But another mystery would keep the police busy as for Bruce Wayne, there would be no body; just a dash of blood to suggest a disturbing disappearance, not really hopeful…

Bruce had taken a few centilitres from the crook of his arm and had thrown his blood in a specific direction across the room. What would be the theories? A kidnapping without ransom, an explosive jealousy, a festive whim, they could be so many.

Gradually leaving his home in his mind, Batman stepped back to get a better view of the scene.

The Christmas tree in the corner of the living room had not withstood the explosion, and when it had collapsed, the baubles, most of them red, had come off and shattered into a thousand pieces. Those sharp teeth wept cold reflections, unhappy to see the Christmas ritual interrupted.

The garlands of gold flakes had been torn apart. The once green thorns were now a carpet of chaos. Some elements of a new and too painful memory, and even though Bruce had thought about every detail with a logical, detective perspective, the situation felt still unrealistic, making him believe it was nothing but a nightmare.

What food was in the fridge? Which bottle of wine had been picked for tonight? Batman had paid no attention then: Christmas was no excuse ignore crime as it did not slow down. On the contrary.

Now, despite the regrets, he had to let go of everything.

By faking Bruce Wayne’s death, he would have only one identity, that of the violent knight. Even when he would not wear his mask, he would remain an outsider.

Perhaps he could grow a beard and, until it was thick enough, wear a false one? That kind of detail could change a man’s face in a surprising way.

As for the clothes, he had taken from his closet only the ordinary ones — Bruce had all ranges of quality since he had already disguised himself to investigate, dressing like street thugs or gothamites on the edge of poverty. As for the suits made by famous designers, as for the shoes by Hermes, Armani or Dior, as for the family cufflinks or those designed by Versace, as for the unique ties by Alexander McQueen, everything would remain here, gathering dust and humidity.

However, like an authentic bat, he would visit the cave from time to time if he needs to repair tools or use materials that could not be moved.

Perhaps he could keep in touch with Lucius Fox? The technicien would be one of the rare people who did not believe Bruce Wayne was dead, not while Batman remained active.

Batman trusted Lucius to keep the secret and accomplish technological feats, but their relationship was primarily professional. Unlike with Alfred…

Squeezing the handle of the suitcase, Bruce felt himself becoming an authentic nomad. Actually, he was becoming an authentic nomad _again_. This night was some kind of way back to where he had been when he had begun the intensive training across Asia that had shaped him.

Just like when he had started his training, he was an unknown without rank or name.

Would it be easier to be Batman without the constant spotlight over Bruce Wayne? Although the spotlight would always be on him, because the avenger would still appear in the media. Oh yes, he was counting on it: no one would doubt his existence.

Batman would not get rid of his grief as Joker had advised him, but instead of tears, blood would ease the pain.

“Farewell, Alfred.”

It would be his last moment of weakness.

***

Small groups of armed clowns stood in the avenue in front of the Royal.

Despite the metal of the machine guns painted in purple, white, green or yellow, they were still menacing.

The Joker’s territory was slowly being built up. Some of Roman Sionis’ men had switched bosses without a moment of hesitation, perhaps attracted by that seed of madness, but they would discover soon enough that this seed was actually a mountain.

Perhaps some were genuine newcomers, straight out of a circus, like this individual wearing a tamer’s red coat and smoking a cigarette with his cold fingertips, still holding the pack in his other hand.

Batman dared to enter the hotel, but no one made a threatening gesture. All eyes were on him, gleaming under the painted faces or grinning masks, but the guns were still pointed at the ground.

The bat had noticed that the two towers of the hotel had more windows lit than when he had left sooner, indicating more activity, and indeed, more austere clowns were roaming the halls and corridors.

Their increasing numbers surprised Batman: after his encounter with the Joker at the bank, he had heard Black Mask’s men mention that this criminal, out of nowhere, had been generous about wads of cash but also bullets in the skulls of the mercenaries. And in a totally random way.

This Joker was a human Russian roulette. And some players wanted to try their luck.

It was still quiet though, so it was unlikely that Bane was already there; maybe Joker had planned a margin of time to make the masked man’s capture credible.

Snow was falling through the hole in the dome: at first tossed around by the wind, it became calmer and more disciplined once in the shelter of the hall. A fir tree had been straightened and mistletoe had been hung under some alcoves. Mercenaries softly chatted before falling silent when they saw the bat, and then, when he left, they resumed their conversation like nothing happened.

Where was the Joker? Batman refused to ask anyone he met, especially since they were all looking at him with a visible hint of hatred.

There was this woman, for example, sitting in a thick armchair in a corner of the corridor. Skinny and small, she stood motionless, except for her black irises that followed the masked man. Foundation, too light for her bronze-colored skin, tried to mask her Central Asian origins, or to westernize them. Lipstick, two days old, formed dry scabs on her mouth. Her fake fur coat was as thick as a blanket, while short clothes could be seen just underneath.

A prostitute, Batman thought. For a moment he almost stopped to advise her to run away from here, but then decided that her situation was none of his business. There was also that darkness in her eyes, that almost electric animosity. She would not want any help from _him_.

Just as in the good old days at the Royal Hotel, music floated in the air. It was a catchy tune. Batman only recognized the song when he heard the smooth voice of Elvis Presley.

_“I don_ _’_ _t need a lot of presents to make my Christmas bright, I just need my baby’s arms wound around me tight…”_

There must have been only one person in the entire hotel who had a hand in the Royal’s playlist. But was the Joker choosing the songs himself or had he stolen the radio from a store?

_“_ _… But with my baby far away, what good is mistletoe? Oh, oh, Santa, hear my plea, Santa, bring my baby back to me._ _”_

A sizzle cut through the end of the chorus, and instead of the King’s honeyed voice, it was the more whimsical voice of the Joker that announced:

_“_ _Mr. Batman is expected in the red room. Mr. Baaatman._ _F_ _ormal dress is required_ _…_ _but_ _ah!_ _I_ _don’t_ _suppose we can expect anything other than your burial suit?_ _”_

The invitation guided Batman’s thoughts to Bane, but he pulled himself together: it was not a convincing approach to make the enemy think the bat had indeed been captured, plus the hotel would not be so peaceful.

At the end of the hallway, a clown was smoking near the elevator, static and unresponsive to the rhythm of the music. His lips expressed tired disgust, and not even the red U-shaped smile painted on his face could fool passers-by.

Since the colorful Pierrot did not draw the gun on his belt, Batman pressed the call button.

“Not that one.” The henchman muttered. “You must take the one over there.”

Without thanking him, Batman turned around and headed for the other elevator across the hall. When the tall golden doors opened, he stared at the map inside, looking for the red lounge.

_“_ _Have yourself a merry little Christ_ _…_ _”_

_“_ _Pssst. Bat_ _sy_ _. Floor 33._ _”_

_“_ _…_ _now on your troubles will be out of sight_ _…_ _”_

The button of floor 33 lit up like a soft candle as Frank Sinatra’s nostalgic song echoed through the peaceful ascending elevator. Batman did not know what was behind it, but he did not like the idea of the Joker having total control of the situation.

The golden gate opened and, as a precaution, Batman stood in a blind spot. He had imagined an armed welcome, perhaps even a bomb in a gift package…

_“_ _How long is it going to take before you find us, detective?!_ _”_

Us.

Joker would not reveal the identity of the guest or guests who waited with him. Instead, he would keep the information as a surprise.

Batman made his way down the hallway, using the arrows, the same ones the clown had drawn in Blackgate.

This time he did not meet anyone, and after two bends, he finally saw a pink light coming from an open room. At least the access seemed free.

Two large bouquets of roses, closer to a bush than a simple table ornament, greeted the arrival of each guest with a velvet shiver. At the windows, the curtains had the heaviness of wine, its color and its opacity. In an appropriate touch, a bottle of Bordeaux was placed on the piano in the center of the room, and a glass, filled of wine, was next it.

“At last! The lucid hero!” Joker cheered as he held a full glass, waving it dangerously over the carpet.

As it turned out, Joker had only one guest: a young blonde woman sitting on the burgundy sofa, looking delighted. The tones of the room accentuated the blush on her cheeks.

“What took you so long? I thought you couldn’t read the arrows.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just a little party, a little Christmas Eve toast to congratulate…” Joker bowed to the young woman. “… Harley Quinzel and her new job at Arkham Asylum!”

Harleen chuckled, then, to hide her embarrassment, took a sip of her already half glass.

It was thanks to this flattered laugh that Batman remembered her: she was the one who the Joker had sent a message before Batman returned to Wayne Manor. The doctor. The Blackgate’s accomplice.

Joker acted as if he had known her for ages, while she acted more shy, like a new girlfriend.

Sitting on the sofa, her knees almost trembling, she seemed to be waiting for the slightest touch, the slightest approach. Behind her glasses, her eyes caressed every movement, admired every gesture of the Joker.

“Thank you, Mr. Joker, that’s really…”

“I don’t understand.” Batman snapped, ignoring the glass Joker was handing him to stare only at the psychiatrist.

“Oh, of course, Mr. Joker didn’t explain it to you… After what happened at Blackgate, a few politicians left their family dinners and the authorities got together to come up with a plan, so it’s still fresh news, but Quincy Sharp has decided to reopen the Arkham Asylum. In his opinion, a reinforced hospital would be a more suitable home for Gotham’s criminals. Especially since he plans to turn it into a real fortress, much safer than Blackgate.”

“Nobody has lived in the mansion for more than fifty years, it has become an old building…”

“Exactly, Batsy! An old building that is haunted, according to the oldest Gothamites. Imagine if we got caught! You, me, wearing straitjackets…”

“It’ll take months for the mansion to be restored, especially to be a hospital.” Batman snapped again, but Harleen refuted:

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that… The mansion’s not in a very good condition, that’s true, yet, the building in front of the mansion was an authentic mental asylum. Well, it was more like a prison, and the twelve cells have been preserved, as well as the equipment to restrain the patients… Quincy Sharp wants to reopen the asylum in less than a week: all he needs is the name of the actual owner to buy the domain, and after all that happened there at the beginning of the century, Amadeus Arkham’s family has already moved away from Gotham and they’ll be happy to get rid of this legacy.”

“Who supports his project?”

“Director Joseph, even if Quincy Sharp has not been particularly kind in his comments about Blackgate… There’s also Judge Harkness. Attorney Harvey Dent has not yet given a response, he plans to give a speech tomorrow. That said, Quincy Sharp can afford to buy the domain by himself, but he’s counting on Warren White, GothCorp and Wayne Industries to endorse this project.”

With a raised eyebrow, Joker glanced at Batman with a perverse smile before drawing all the attention to himself:

“But the most important is that the poor, unfortunate Harley is a victim of that night’s drama at Blackgate, and as a reward for her coolness and motivation, the hierarchy will pay attention to all of her requests, such as becoming a doctor at Arkham!”

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Could be translated as « Before they roast, gnats believe they can withstand the light from lamp posts. »


End file.
